Archie Webb

Archie Calling: Altaforte!

‘Hello J., Archie here’ would strike a peace
of sorts. ‘Three new ones for you’ – pure music.
Damn Priest (Hoovering) left out to clash
with Priest (Ironing). We halt opposite
fresh judiciary. All three march crimson
off Isa’s bedroom wall. Is she happy?

Ay, sleeps all night under them, quite happy.
His Priest (Hoovering) would strike a peace
in Hell. ‘They Three Judges took all my crimson’,
he fumes. Finding the next takes music.
We shove Muirhouse Ox to the wall opposite,
and wait while, stirrer, he sticks on The Clash.

gold, blues – til it bled all its crimson
‘to varnished scabs’, he mourns. How could they clash
against this ineradicable red music?
These pure rogue pigments replicate: Happy
Warriston Crematorium! Let peace
combust too in this ghost copse opposite

Ward One, the Royal Ed. Opposite,
the venereal clinic curds its crimson
peaks in a concupiscent peace.
His vista north from Drylaw does clash
since the gasometer got blown, unhappy
postscript in blue belated blade music.

In the jive of his palette knife, a music
of impossible impasto rises. Opposite,
a blue disappointed Brighton Pier is happi-
ness. All his blues now whip to crimson.
Where his black waves battle, lush hues clash:
weltering web. Ay, Archie’s call strikes peace